


and what i remember most

by weatheredlaw



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Porn, Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I do not think this is what you meant when you asked me to come to Kirkwall, my love.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and what i remember most

**Author's Note:**

> um

She has not seen him since he left so early in the morning on his last day at Skyhold. She’d shaken his hand, and offered him a smile.

“It was good working with you, Seeker.”

“It was alright.”

He put a hand over his heart. “You can’t compliment me so early in the morning, you know. It knocks me down.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and watched him toss his things onto a wagon heading for the Coast.

“See you around, Seeker.”

She raised her hand and nodded, before returning to her duties.

She didn’t think on it, or him, for a long time.

 

* * *

 

And then there is the mirror.

Cassandra hates the mirror.

Varric is standing next to her, staring at it cautiously. Dorian is _giddy._

“This is in such excellent condition. Such a lovely shine.” He touches it, and the glass ripples.

“Dunno,” Varric says, low and cautious. “Still gives me the creeps.” Cassandra agrees. Varric takes a step back. “Maybe…maybe we shouldn’t.”

“ _Varric!_ ” The Inquisitor breezes in, sheathing his sword with a flourish and a grin. “You’re going to shy away from adventure _now?_ ”

“I’ve got a city to lead,” he mutters. “I’ve got responsibilities, I—”

“Just a peek.” Aedan puts a hand on Varric’s shoulder. “Besides, the Seeker is ready, are you not, Cassandra?”

She breathes, closes her eyes.

“Of course, Inquisitor. I am always ready.”

 

* * *

 

She is not ready.

She is not.

How _could_ she be?

 

* * *

 

Over and over, they step into the mirror. Cassandra’s shoulders droop with the effort of it – even Dorian, who had so eagerly followed Lavellan onto the other side, approaches what Aedan promises to be their final journey with a heavy heart.

“I haven’t slept properly in days,” he mutters. Varric grunts beside him. Cassandra’s back is straight only out of sheer will, and when another battle begins, she fights as she always does – and she is not surprised to see her companions do the same. Dorian uses magic as an extension of himself, and Varric is not so different with Bianca.

She wonders when she became so weary of battle. Peacetime is a salve, but a weakness she suspects. She will not make the same mistake again.

 

* * *

 

Cassandra watches a weathered Lavellan hand over the duties of the Inquisition. She watches him through the celebration, and her gaze is only broken by Varric’s hand on her arm, pushing something into her stiff fingers.

“It is—”

“For you,” he says.

“Oh.”

“There’s even a dedication, Seeker.” He smiles and Cassandra looks down at the book.

He is watching her, and she flushes under his gaze.

 

* * *

 

She should rest, she knows this, but there is something pulling her down the hall, right on Varric’s heels, and he sees her, watches her, and opens the door to his room.

“You want to come inside?” he asks, voice hoarse with exhaustion, and Cassandra tumbles into his arms, pressing her mouth to his clumsily. She feels him pull her inside, the door shut and lock behind him – and she cannot bring herself to stop. “ _Seeker_ —”

“Will it ever end?”

“Doubt it.”

“Then kiss me.”

“I am.”

“Everywhere.”

“I—” He pulls back, hands gripping her arms. “Cassandra.”

“If you don’t want me, then I’ll go, I—”

He growls, kisses her again. “Stupid woman.”

“ _Varric._ ”

“How the hell could I not _want_ you?” He tips her head back and kisses her neck, tongue against warm flesh, pushing her back and back. She tosses the book aside and feels the bookcase against the far wall meet the back of her head with a groan. Varric pulls back. “Sorry, sorry—”

“Shut up.”

Maker, his _hands_ , hands everywhere, tugging and  pulling clothes just far enough down to reach, for him to lick his fingers and touch her. She sparks, shouts, and opens to him. With a jolt she is wet, and he is pushing two fingers inside her, stroking his cock, spreading her legs, spreading, _spreading –_

“Varric—” Cassandra cries out, and his cock fills her, shakes the memory of the mirror out of her mind, binds her to him. It is quick, filthy, over too soon – he comes with a shout and she is still trembling, still waiting while he grinds his palm against her clit, drags her release out of her until she is screaming with it, desperate and angry and so _tired_ of being alone.

 

* * *

 

She wakes, naked, in a bed – and this surprises her. She’s spent weeks camping on the hard ground or hard, straw mats. Cassandra turns, and finds her nose pressed against someone's chest – someone’s extremely hairy chest.

Varric grunts, rolls over, and pulls her in without waking.

Cassandra tugs on her bottom lip. “Varric,” she whispers. He doesn’t move. “ _Varric._ ” Nothing. She sighs, wondering if she could slide out from his grasp. There’s nothing that she really has to do – they’re finished with Halamshiral, for now. She closes her eyes, shifting just a bit. Varric makes a soft sound, his hand sliding up her back.

“You can go,” he murmurs, “if you want.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t need to.”

“I said, if you _want._ ” He opens his eyes now, reaching down with his free hand and pressing his fingers under her chin, raising her gaze to his own. “Do you want to go, Seeker?”

Cassandra usually has something to say, especially to Varric. Something quick to disarm him, to throw him off. She supposes kissing him has the same effect. He groans into her mouth pulling her flush against him, hands spread over her back as she rolls them over to straddle his waist, her mouth never leaving his.

He reaches down to stroke his cock, and Cassandra helps guide him into her, moaning as he does, finally drawing back. “ _Varric_.”

“Come on,” he says. “ _Come on_.” He pushes his hips up, forcing himself deeper. Cassandra cries out, throwing her head back, mouth hanging open. “Gorgeous. You’re so fucking gorgeous, Seeker.”

She leans down, threading her fingers through his hair and rolling her hips. “I do not want to go. Not…not now.”

“What do you want?” he breathes. Cassandra gasps as he stills inside her, staring at him. “Tell me.”

She moans. “ _This_ ,” she says. “I want _this._ ”

 

* * *

 

“Come to Kirkwall when you get the chance,” he says, and pulls her down into a kiss.

Dorian _screeches._

 

* * *

 

Cassanda doesn’t have time to go to Kirkwall. She writes, and he writes back – vivid descriptions of his day, of what he’s imagining he could do to her, of how he couldn’t imagine that she’d make him this _wild._ Cassandra finds the words flow from her like an open vein, and her thoughts are just as flushed, just as full.

She _misses_ him, she realizes, and writes that she’s journeying toward him.

He does not answer.

This is fine, she reasons. She’s moved from her last place, she’s getting closer to the Marches. But, still, even when she writes to tell him where she’ll be in two day’s time, there is no response.

When she arrives in Kirkwall, the city is draped in black.

 

* * *

 

“He didn’t like the protection,” Bran says quietly, handing her a cup of tea. “Made him feel…small, I think. Though he wouldn’t say it.” The former seneschal has returned to the Viscount position, still in his mourning garb.

“What was it, then?”

“He was…he was in a crowd. He was shaking hands. Perhaps we were becoming complacent. We thought the people were on our side. Most were, really. I’d never…we just never _thought_ —”

Cassandra stands. “I have missed it, then. The memorial.”

Bran sighs. “By a day, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“His ashes then. Where are they?”

“Ah. They…well…the Chantry…they allowed him to be buried, with the other Viscounts.” Bran seems proud of this, as proud as a man who is grieving can be. “Would you like me to take you there?”

Cassandra sets her cup down. “Yes. I would.”

 

* * *

 

Bran escorts her to the Chantry cemetery, but he leaves her when she stops in front of the headstone, and sinks slowly to her knees.

This is not what she imagined.

The stone is clean cut and new, the soil still loose under her hands.

“Hello,” she says quietly. “I do not think this is what you meant when you asked me to come to Kirkwall, my love.” She leans in, resting her hand on the stone. “I told myself that I…I wouldn’t say it isn’t fair, but…it hardly is. You didn’t…we never had the chance…I was going to come here, and I was going to stay. With you. I wanted to be _with_ you, and now—” Cassandra feels it, unbidden and unwanted, the terrible ache of _loss_ that she thought she had shed so long ago.

Hadn’t she grown? Varric had been…he was her comet, she supposes. Brief, flashing, beautiful – and then gone, burnt and spent and leaving her behind to pick up the pieces.

“How typical,” she murmurs. “Not of you, my love. I do not regret going to bed with you at Halamshiral, or reading a single of your letters. I only regret that I…that you didn’t know how _much_ I did love you. _Do_ love you. Oh, _Varric_ —” Cassandra grips the stone, closing her eyes and finally letting go.

It takes time. It takes more time than she thought it would.

Eventually she is able to stand. Eventually she is able to go back to Bran. Eventually…eventually she must go.

 

* * *

 

“He…had a will.”

“Oh?”

Cassandra  turns, taking a roll of parchment from Bran. “He left his manuscripts to you.”

She balks, looking down at the box of papers a servant places at her feet. “He _what?_ ”

“These are for you. They’re _all_ for you.” Cassandra bends down and picks up one of the manuscripts. It’s not a title she recognizes, and when she flips through it, her eyes settle onto the second page, and the words written in Varric’s elegant, looping script.

_For the Seeker, always, even when I didn’t know._


End file.
